Resting Merry
by distaff.exile
Summary: SLASH Holmes/Watson. -- It had been a long, hard night - I could tell by the new gray in his fair hair, as well as the perpetual furrow upon his brow.


( the fine print: ) Technically, I don't need a disclaimer as Holmes is in the public domain. However, in case you're curious, he and Watson originally belonged to Arthur Conan Doyle.

( pairing: ) Holmes/Watson

* * *

Resting Merry

Miss Lola D

* * *

After Holmes' run-in with the quicksand, we lay upon the grass, each too exhausted by our efforts to move. My breath was quite gone; I had used all of my strength to pull Holmes from the mire - my strength and my coat! I was amazed, to say the least, that the stitches had held under the strain; Holmes is, after all, a grown man and no featherweight. My wound made my shoulder throb in agony, continuing to bleed as I stared up at the stars over Dartmoor.

'Watson,' said Holmes, when he had recovered sufficiently from his ordeal to sit up. 'You must be seen by Dr. Mortimer.'

'I fear he will be occupied for some time with Sir Henry,' I said. 'I do not wish to be a bother.'

'Nonsense,' snapped Holmes. 'Come back to Baskerville Hall with me at once. That hole in your shoulder must be cleaned and patched.'

With a groan, I heaved myself upwards until my back was perpendicular to the ground; unfortunately, this set off a wave of dizziness and nausea in me, and I had to lie down again. The rush I had gotten during Holmes' hour of despair was long gone. 'I don't think I can walk,' I said. 'You'll have to bring the good doctor out here.'

'I shall carry you,' declared Holmes, crawling towards me.

'Are you mad?' I asked. 'I'll ruin your clothes.' Absurd thinking, yes, but blood was all I could smell; it was smeared over my own shirt and doubtless on the grass below me.

'I will not be responsible for your death.' Holmes halted at my side, rummaging around in my pocket for a handkerchief. Once he had one, he pressed it to my wound; another, this from his own stash, went over the first and was tied around my shoulder, running under my arm. 'Stapleton shot you because I provoked him. You saved my life even after I was sure I had left you for dead. How could I let you die, you who are my truest and only friend?'

Even though the pain was overwhelming, I managed a smile. Dear Holmes - his fits of warmth were few and far between, but precious all. 'If you insist,' I whispered. 'Promise me you won't jostle the shoulder much; it hurts dreadfully.'

Rising to crouch over me, he pulled me carefully into his arms. 'We'll be inside again soon,' he said. 'You'll have your relief then.'

The heat of Holmes' body, welcome as it was on such a cold Christmas night, could not remove the intense ache spreading through my left side. Mercifully, as he rose to his feet and began to run over the moor, I lost consciousness.

When next I awoke, it was not quite morning; the cloud-heavy sky was still a rich cerulean blue, not the silver of repressed sunlight. The bed in which I lay was not my own, either at Baker Street or at Baskerville Hall; these pillows carried a familiar, yet alien scent.

'Holmes?' I called quietly. He had given up his bed for me; I doubted he had actually taken the liberty of sleeping on the other side. While I would not have minded his presence, he was certainly too shy to risk it.

He had pulled up a chair to the right side of his bed and was sleeping there, nestled in the folds of his open dressing-gown, when I saw him. It had been a long, hard night - I could tell by the new gray in his fair hair, as well as the perpetual furrow upon his brow. The bags beneath his eyes were more prominent than ever, and his lips were pressed tightly together. Even in sleep, Sherlock Holmes could not relax. He had likely forsaken his seven-percent solution; was this for me?

I had long ago given up the company of women for him. He had rescued me from a life of ordinary dullness; he had introduced me to the pleasures of deduction; he had pushed me to the brink of death and pulled me back again. This man was more to me than a detective or the subject of a biography, and closer to me than a mere friend. I had loved him for years, and the blood that pumped through my heart was thicker than the mire which had nearly drowned him.

My heart beat for him alone. How could I have left him to die? I had run out to the moor knowing full well that I was risking my own life. Had he died there, my life would have been rendered valueless. It would be both or neither of us left alive at the end of the day - or the dawn of the next, as it were.

This dawn brought me a clearer head and a less painful shoulder. Someone had removed my shirt and bound my arm up in a sling. I could sit up, and did so, swinging my legs over the right side of the bed. The bed was so high that I could not quite reach the ground; even so, I leaned over to touch the wrist of the man in the chair by my side.

I relished the feel of smooth, pulsing satin against my fingertips. Holmes was in robust health, as evidenced by the faint pink of his cheeks and the banked fire beneath his skin. My fingers rubbed circles over the bones of his wrist, yet he remained asleep. Emboldened by this complete oblivion, I reached for higher ground, caressing the light fur atop his arms. Toying with the cuff of his shirt, I contemplated what lay beyond the barrier of crisp white cotton - the play of muscles beneath pale skin, dusky rose nipples perched upon fine flat breasts, even the musk of a night without bathing.

Perhaps I leaned a bit too far, for I toppled off the mattress and straight into Holmes' lap.

'Good morning, Watson,' he said, for he could no longer ignore my presence for the bliss of sleep. 'Is it late?'

'Early, I should say,' I said, shifting in his lap to face him. 'I couldn't sleep, that's all.'

'So you decided to jump on me - and in such a state,' he said. 'Very smart, Doctor.'

'I'm sorry.' I wasn't. 'Do you feel that draft?'

'Watson, you must be hallucinating. The fire is currently roaring and I'm even sweating - look.' Indeed, small beads of sweat had collected at Holmes' hairline. 'Unless your wound is infected - which I doubt it is, so soon after it was incurred - you cannot possibly be chilled.'

The room was a bit on the cold side, something which I played up for my own devious purposes. 'If you weren't wearing a shirt, you'd be cold, too,' I said. 'Either build the fire or help me get dressed.'

Holmes yawned. 'It cannot be later than seven,' he said. 'Why don't you go back to sleep? You'll warm quickly under the eiderdown.'

Sleep - aha. 'And you? I have put you out of your own bed; now that you have seen for yourself that I'm alive and well, go sleep in mine.'

This suggestion had the desired effect; it played upon all of Holmes' protective instincts and left little doubt in my mind as to how I would find my extra warmth that morning. 'The last time I left you alone, you dashed onto the moor with a bullet hole in your shoulder.' He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at me. 'I am not leaving you again.'

From a different kind of man, that might well have been a declaration of love. From Holmes, it was more of a reprimand than anything else, but one which fit perfectly into my plan.

'Then join me,' I said. 'Doubtless two can keep warm better than one.'

I expected him to dump me on the mattress and flee, but he nodded instead. 'I shall enjoy a few hours' rest in something not upholstered with purple and yellow checked plush. The noise of the colors kept me awake half the night.'

As he had done the night before, Holmes picked me up - as if I weighed no more than a child! - and made sure of my comfort. Having lost the power of intelligent speech when he agreed to my request, I could only lean my head on his chest, just below his chin, and allow him to settle me in his arms before he stood.

He put me down on the bed and drew the covers back. 'Lie down,' he instructed. 'I shall tuck you in.'

This tenderness was an entirely new thing from Holmes, and I daresay I liked it. Obediently, I reclined into my nest of pillows, my eyes never leaving his. Firelight flickered in his gaze as he replaced the flannel sheet, the woolen coverlet, and the eiderdown quilt over my shivering form.

Once he had finished with me, he sat down at my feet and began to disrobe. He lay his slippers on the floor, just beneath the bedskirt. His shirt joined his dressing-gown in a heap on a nearby ottoman. All he wore now was a pair of trousers and a thin vest.

'Are you quite satisfied?' he asked, scooting to the right and backwards over the quilt until he sat by my head. 'You have my bed and you have me in it.'

'Get under the covers,' I directed. 'You're not going to keep me very warm just by sitting there.'

He shook his head. 'The things I do for you, my dearest Watson.' But he obliged anyway, stretching out and turning towards me. 'You are alive. I marvel at your ability to press on.'

'I did what needed doing.' My free hand strayed once more to him, and this time he gripped it tightly in his own.

'Then let us hope you always know what needs doing.'

I was shivering before; now I melted at the sight of him, all disheveled and sleepy, not more than a foot away from me. I could not keep a silly smile from my face.

'Is something funny, Watson?' Still he would not release my hand.

'Everything is fine. Go to sleep.' I closed my eyes and was about to resume my own slumber when I felt his deft fingers curling around mine even more tightly than before. I cracked one eye open a hair, just in time to see him lower his lips to the back of my hand.

'Happy Boxing Day, Watson.' This said, he laced his fingers through mine and drew closer, pressing our joined hands to his chest. I could have sworn I heard a small sigh of contentment as his eyes drifted shut.

We did not wake again until late in the morning, when the doctor came in to check on me. 'Watson,' he greeted me, 'I believe you have a new blanket.'

'Hm?' Glancing down, I saw that Holmes had plastered himself to my side, his arms flung about my waist and his head resting with one ear over my heart. 'Ah. He must have had a nightmare.' An easy lie; when people meet a man like Sherlock Holmes, they immediately assume his mind must be filled with demons. Let me assure you that it is a beautiful mind, twisting and turning through an endless labyrinth, always seeking the answer to the next question.

'How is your shoulder?' Mortimer asked, sitting in Holmes' loud chair. 'Feeling any better?'

'Some,' I replied. 'Morphine?'

'It worked perfectly,' said the doctor in confirmation.

'What time is it?' I asked, afraid to free my hand lest Holmes be disturbed.

'Gone ten,' Mortimer said. 'I'll leave you two alone a bit longer; Lord knows you could use the rest.' He was about to rise when I realized there was still one thing preying on my mind.

'And how fares Sir Henry?'

Mortimer turned to me, a baleful look in his eyes. 'He's lucky to be alive.'

So, in the end, Holmes and I had not accomplished everything we had set out to do. Sir Henry had still become one of the Hound's victims, albeit one that survived. I hoped the incident would not drive him from Baskerville Hall; I certainly intended to come again, once I could get some free time.

For now, I had an hour or two yet with the man I loved. 'Give Henry my best,' I murmured, returning my gaze to Holmes. I do not know whether Mortimer made any move other than the one to my door - our door - and out of the room.

Soon enough, the morphine would wear off; for now, I had relief from the pain. I was determined to draw as much enjoyment from this quiet time as possible. Adjusting myself so that I could shield Holmes with my body, I let him hold on as much as he needed. Even if he was only dreaming, I needed to know for sure that we were still alive and fairly well after that disastrous Christmas.

Warm, safe, and comfortable at last, I let myself fall into the rhythm of his breaths. It lulled me back to peaceful slumber. The last sensation I registered before sleep retook me was his soft hair against my nose and lips, the very scent of him permeating my little world.


End file.
